


Each heart which thus kindly dies

by JamesJohnEye



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Family, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:27:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4837007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJohnEye/pseuds/JamesJohnEye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flashes of the shattered lives of Reid, Garcia and Henry, after Will and JJ die in a car crash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Luck

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this series came from the poem 'Friendships Mystery, To My Dearest Lucasia', written by Katherine Fowler Philips.

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, it’s a slippery road. And an accident.

The emergency room is packed with people. It’s a Friday night. Drunk teenagers are wheeled past while concerned parents scream their names, boyfriends fight with girlfriends over who’s fault this mess is, doctors rush past to tend to their many patients. Nurses try to calm relatives while cutting up shirts and jeans to inspect wounds and heartbeats.

Nobody pays any mind to the quiet huddle of people in the far corner.

Four people, sitting close together amidst the chaos. Their empty gazes are fixed on the floor while trembling fingers trace the rims of plastic cups. The coffee is cold now. Every few minutes one of them takes a sip and grimaces but nobody gets up to throw the cups away. Instead they sit together, quiet, with empty eyes.

One of them, the only woman, is wearing brightly colored clothing. Her make-up drips  down her ashen cheeks but she doesn’t wipe it away. She doesn’t even notice. There’s blood on her hands and under her fingernails.

‘Garcia,’ one of the men takes her hands in his. He wipes them clean with a wet towel.

‘Oh my god,’ she breathes when she sees the blood. The man guides her head onto his shoulder. He lets her sob until his shirt is wet and dirty, streaked with make-up, tears and blood.

The chaos surrounding them is never ending. Constant screams of victims in pain, raging parents and doctors shouting for assistance. The entrance doors open and close. They can hear the blaring of sirens, somewhere in the distance, but none of them register it properly. It’s like the world is rushing past and they’re watching it. A movie, with them as captive audience.

But then the doors open again and a young man walks in. His hair is wet from the snow and he’s wearing a dark coat which looks expensive. When the doors close behind him, he unbuttons the coat to reveal a young boy, clinging to his neck and chest. The man moves towards the desk. His Chuck Taylor’s squeak on the wet tiles.

‘He’s here,’ Garcia breathes as she spots him. She moves to stand but finds that her legs won’t hold her. Morgan guides her back down into the plastic chair.

The receptionist leads the man over.

‘Reid,’ Garcia moans softly but her gaze slides down to the boy in the genius’ arms. Bright green eyes peek out from under the heavy coat. A tuff of blonde hair, mussed, and a thumb securely locked inside a tiny mouth. The boy yawns around it, pawing with his other hand at his godfather’s chest.

‘How are they?’ Spencer asks as he hitches Henry higher onto his hip.

‘Will didn’t make it,’ Hotch says softly, standing up to face his subordinate. ‘He died in the crash.’

‘And JJ?’

Hotchner looks at his hands before answering. The dark eyes are bloodshot. Raw and red. Spencer thinks about the last time he saw his boss cry and shivers.

‘She won’t make it,’ Hotch answers. ‘There’s too much internal damage. We don’t have much time.’

‘I understand.’ Spencer gently puts Henry on a chair, making him stand on the plastic surface. The boy sways a little, still sleepy, but the eyes grow brighter when he sees all the chaos surrounding them. He sucks his thumb, making a content little noise when Spencer sits down next to him so they’re on exactly the same level. The young man shrugs out of his coat and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, the way he always does when he needs to focus.

‘Hey buddy. We’re at the hospital. Mummy and daddy had an accident.’

Big green eyes stare at Spencer. They blink slowly.

‘A really bad accident. Daddy died.’

The blinking stops for a moment.

‘I’m sorry Henry. Dad died. And mummy is really sick. We need to say goodbye to her.’

Little hands reach out to Spencer. The lower lip trembles for a bit but Henry doesn’t cry when Spencer pulls him close so their foreheads are almost touching. Big green eyes stare into brown ones. The room surrounding them is loud, but Spencer can easily hear his godson’s whispered ‘Why?’

‘Mummy is really sick. She is going to die too, Henry. We need to tell her how much we love her. And we need to say goodbye.’

The boy nods. He loops his arms around his godfathers neck and settles onto his hip. Spencer rises easily.

‘Mummy might look a little different, Henry, because she’s been in the accident, but she loves you very much and really wants to see you. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Henry echoes.

Spencer opens the door to the private room and steps in. The chaos of the emergency room vanishes when the door clicks shut behind them. There’s a bed in the middle of the room. Various instruments are placed beside it. Heart monitors, respiratory devices, bags with blood. A thousand tubes seem to be plugged into the small body on the bed.

Henry whimpers and clings to Spencer when he sees his mom.

‘It’s okay,’ Spencer soothes as he steps forward, rubbing the boy’s back comfortingly. ‘It’s just mommy.’

But it isn’t JJ at all. Her skin isn’t ivory anymore. It’s black and blue and red, torn open by glass and bruised by crunching metal. One eye is swollen and purple, her lip is split and the blonde hair is filthy. There are tear tracks in the dirt on her cheeks. Her hands are covered in Will’s blood. She tried to resuscitate him. Many, many times.

Spencer gently sits down next to her on the bed. He reaches out and touches her cheek, showing Henry that he shouldn’t be scared.

‘JJ? It’s Spencer. You have to wake up now. Henry is here.’

The young mother opens one eye. Her breathing is irregular and blood still seeps over her lips as she tries to talk. The heart monitor protests softly.

‘Say goodbye to mommy,’ Spencer tells the boy as he lifts him off his lap and onto the bed. Henry looks unsure for a moment, glancing back at his godfather. Spencer gives him an encouraging smile and sets example by leaning forward and kissing JJ on her cheek. ‘Real careful,’ he tells the boy.

Henry kisses his mom and whispers ‘bye mommy. Love you.’

There are tears leaking from JJ’s eyes. Her hand twitches but it hurts too much to move. Her son gazes into her eye, before pressing his own forehead carefully against her lips. When he scrambles back into Spencer’s lap, there’s a bloodstain where her lips were. Spencer wipes it away before JJ can see it.

The door opens and Hotchner walks in. He picks Henry up and carries him outside. In the doorway, he looks back at his communication liaison and Henry asks why he’s crying. He’s too young to understand.

The door closes again. Spencer reaches out and takes JJ’s hand in his. She looks at him with her one good eye. Her chest heaves with broken breaths. Tears dribble onto her pillow.

They both know Will is dead. And they both know that JJ is in too much pain to want to live on. Her body is giving up. Too broken to heal.

Spencer thinks about dying. People die all the time. There are 1.78 deaths a second. 107 a minute. There are statistics of the likelihood of any person, dying right now or in the coming ten minutes. There are formulas to calculate the odds of him, surviving this very minute. This night. Spencer knows those formula’s by heart. He read them once, a long time ago, and like everything else he’s read, it stuck.

But the formulas are filled with X’s and Y’s. And they make sense in the context of person X and miss Y.

Spencer’s brain errs when his friends become variables. When love is just another measurable quantity and friendship an additional risk-factor.  The numbers and figures he loves so much don’t make any sense when they spell out the deaths of his friends.

They both know her odds. And Spencer knows that she’s hurting.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. It surprises him how calm he sounds. The voice of reason on a deathbed. He tightens his hold on JJ’s hand. A single tear slides down his cheek. ‘I understand. Henry is safe with me.’

The hand squeezes his.

‘I promise,’ Spencer says. He brushes dirty hair out of his friends face, tucking it behind her ear gently. ‘You can let go now. I don’t want you to, but I do understand. I love you. Don’t worry about Henry. I’ve got him. He’s safe. He loves you so much.’

The eyes close. The grip on spencer’s hand slackens.

Monitors start to beep frantically. The door swings open, nurses stream in, trying to revive her, screaming for a crash-cart. But Spencer stands and slips out of the room, knowing that all the attempts will be in vain.

He can’t blame JJ for leaving them behind. Not with all the pain, all the heartbreak and disaster. Not when Will is dead and her body broken.

Staying awake long enough to see her son one last time was a single victory in a lost war. Her life, a lost cause now.

In the end, it was a slippery road. Not an unsub, not a medical condition, not sheer loneliness or even old-age. It was quick. Spencer wonders what his formulas would say to that. How it would qualify the outcome.

As luck, maybe.

The cruel kind.


	2. Tuesday morning

 

* * *

 

The funeral is on a Tuesday morning. Rain clouds have gathered over Quantico, an illustrious threat of cold and wetness hanging above their heads. The sword of Damocles in ice-cold teardrops, dripping from the heavens. Puddles form treacherous obstacles on their way to grief. People grasp onto hands of others to remain upright. Maybe nature is forcing them together, to share their pain, to remain balanced in times of hardship.

The room is big, but not big enough to host all the mourners. People have to stand along the walls, children need to climb on the laps of their parents and some people are led away to waiting areas. The first four rows are reserved for family members. It’s where Spencer sits with Henry. It’s where Garcia, Morgan, Hotch, Jack and Beth sit. On the first row. The next of kin.

The coffins are closed. Large pictures hang above them.

JJ looks beautiful in the picture. And Will handsome. But most of all they look happy.

The service takes forever. Many people want to pay their respect by sharing their favorite memories with the crowd. Garcia speaks on behalf of the BAU. Her story is funny and it makes people laugh. But while she tells it, tears stream down her face. When she gives JJ’s coffin a hand-kiss, it’s Morgan who quietly leads her away, allowing her to scream and cry into his chest.

Jack runs up the alter to lay down two white roses. One on each coffin. When he walks back, he stops to give Henry a kiss. It’s childish behavior, brought forth by the fact that they both don’t understand what’s going on, but Spencer smiles at the older boy and hugs Henry close.

Then there are ministers who want to thank JJ for her excellent service and childhood friends who tell about all the mischief Will had ever done. Neighbors, babysitters, co-workers, friends, distant relatives. They all have stories to tell.

Will’s friends and co-workers carry his coffin. Police officers, carrying their fallen friend on their shoulders, stroking the hardwood box before settling it down outside, above an open grave. They all cry. Some lean down to kiss the wood, where Will’s forehead is. It’s a cultural thing, they joke through their tears because they’ve all heard that story, told by their friend, a million times over.

The BAU team carries JJ. Spencer thinks about how light her coffin feels, whether that’s because she was always fit and petit, or whether he is numb. Morgan walks behind him. His face is blank. He doesn’t cry. Neither does Hotch. But Kevin does and there’s something wet on Spencer’s cheeks.

A priest gives his blessing.

Hotch says a few words.

There’s a speech inside spencer’s trouser pocket, but his hands tremble and his vision is blurry. He doesn’t dare to speak, keeping his lips pressed together so he doesn’t taste the salt. There’s a moment that he just wants to cry, scream, rage about how unfair this is. How it’s just not worth it.

But then Morgan reaches over, picks his pocket and holds his speech for him. The words sounds foreign, even though he wrote them yesterday. They speak of good times. Of family, friendship, love. Of their meetings, of Will, of Henry. Of family dinners and Henry’s first comic-con. Of the accident and Wills broken body. Of JJ’s smile and Spencer’s promise.

The service is over. People start to leave.

The BAU team lingers, waiting at the graveyard for their last team member. They stand between the graves as silent sentinels, gazing at their hurting family.

Spencer kneels down next to Henry, ‘time to say goodbye.’

‘Bye,’ the boy says.

‘Give mom and dad a kiss.’

Henry walks over to the coffins, planting a big kiss on the wet wood.

‘Good job,’ Spencer murmurs as he lifts Henry up and puts him on his hip. The small arms loop around his neck and it doesn’t feel strange at all. Spencer straightens and realizes that it’s not just his team who’s watching.

A dark figure stands near the coffins, hiding beneath an umbrella. The soft rain ruffles on the fabric, breaking the silence of the dead. It’s a man. A silhouette Spencer would recognize out of millions, one he first saw during one of the FBI’s promotion lectures. The man slowly makes his way over to Spencer, until he stands before him.

‘Hello Gideon.’

‘Hello Spencer.’

The team circles closer. Their movements are silent. Garcia has her hand folded over her mouth in surprise. Morgan looks furious. He moves to stand in front of her, shielding her from a possible attack, but she pushes him gently aside, wanting to see this confrontation.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Gideon says.

_Your_ loss. It almost makes Spencer laugh. Ultimate proof that he was never anything more than a pawn in Gideon’s game. That their team was never the family it pretended to be, in those days. It’s his pain. His loss. And Gideon doesn’t care.

‘Thank you for the letter,’ Spencer says because he’s older now and the wounds have scarred over. He used to envision this meeting, how he would rant and scream at his mentor for leaving him behind, but there are more important things to consider now. There’s a small boy in his arms. There’s a family waiting for him. He doesn’t need Gideon anymore. He grew up.

‘Spencer,’ Gideon starts and he looks sorry.

‘I hope you found your happy ending,’ Spencer says and he means it. When he walks away, back to the family that’s waiting for him, he notices how hostile they all seem. Like wolves, with their hackles raised.

Morgan throws an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, pulling him close while they walk away. Brothers, in all the ways that matter. Garcia and Beth follow them, tucking Kevin and Jack along. They close the ranks, mothering their little group of mourners. Supplying comfort with soft words and easy smiles.

It’s Hotch who stays behind. He doesn’t have an umbrella, his hair glistens with wetness, but so does his cheeks. The look he gives Gideon is cold and unreadable, but the older profiler knows what is meant all the same.


	3. Every parent

 

* * *

 

 

**‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad,**

**They may not mean to, but they do.**

**They fill you with the faults they had,**

**And add some extra, just for you.’**

-        **Philip Larkin.**

* * *

 

 

The door opens and closes. Reid can’t be bothered to look who it is now. He just crosses his arms and stares out of the window. The sun is setting over Quantico. Orange light spills over the city, making windows glisten and wet concrete roads rivers of blood. Soon it will be dark.

Cars file out of the parking lot. Agents making their way home, to their wives, husbands, children, dogs, cats, empty apartments. Some linger near their cars, talking to their team members, laughing over little inside jokes. Reid watches them. He could calculate the possibility of them never making it home. He doesn’t want to.

‘Reid?’

Hotch’s voice is filled with concern. People sometimes seem surprised when they hear the agent talk with a voice overflowing with concern, gratitude or love. Almost like they hadn’t thought he was capable of any emotion. Reid watches Hotch’s reflection in the window and wonders how people could be that dim.

‘The five stages of grief are a common misconception. Doctor Kübler-Ross was actually writing about the experience of facing one's own death, not the death of someone else. Other practitioners began applying them to grief. Kübler-ross did encourage it as there was no specific data set to contradict the stages. She based her theory on onetime interviews with terminally ill patients. She didn’t come up with the stages until she was already commissioned to write On Death and Dying.’

‘Reid.’

Reid turns to face his superior. Hotch doesn’t look angry or disappointed. He seems perfectly calm and collected, the way he always does when at the office. If there’s a trick to distancing yourself from your work, Aaron Hotchner mastered it a long time ago. It’s the reason why people think he’s emotionless and it’s the reason why he can sleep at night. But when he sits down in the black chair, all composed and neutral, his eyes tell a different story.

‘How is she supposed to counsel people when she doesn’t even grasp the theory behind it? She asked me which _stage_ I was in,’ Reid says, glaring at the closed door. ‘I’m not dying.’

‘I know,’ Hotch says.

There’s a long silence. And it isn’t awkward. Reid thinks about the four counselors he’s send running today. He’s read every book in the university library on grieving, death and pedagogics. There was nothing those counselors could teach him. And there was a lot they could get wrong. Maybe it’s not fair but fair doesn’t matter. There’s no trick Reid doesn’t know about counseling, interrogation or therapy. He knows which answers to give.

They all wanted him to talk about his dead friends. They asked him how he grieved, how often he cried, how he was coping. Reid told them about the occasional nightmare, the break-downs, the fact that he keeps their picture on his nightstand. Picture perfect answers, sometimes literally quoted out of the handbooks the counselors had written. They gave up on him. Storming out, yelling about him not wanting help, crying over his harsh words on their lifeworks.

They’d all given up. Some were harder to break than others, but they all broke. Reid considers whether that is a tribute to his interrogations skills, or if he’s just a bad person.

Hotch doesn’t say anything. He just sits there, where the counselor sat and looks at Reid. The silence is more comforting than the words spoken by professionals.

There’s something off about talking to Hotch, Reid thinks. They’ve had heart-to-hearts before. Grief assessments over people who weren’t really dead. Hotch had asked about the five stages of grief, then. It hadn’t made Reid want to send him home, crying.

The brown eyes regard him. It’s clear that Hotch will wait for him to break the silence.

‘What am I supposed to say?’ Reid asks because he feels lost.

‘Whatever you want,’ Hotch says and he means it.

Reid sits down on the couch. He stares at the floor.

There’s too much to say. All the things he didn’t want the counselors to know about. He’s never been much of a talker, not about his own thoughts and feelings. He’s always relied on other people, theories, books to provide him with things to say. But now he wants to tell Hotch something. Something that really matters.

It’s not because he owes Hotch, even though he does.

It’s because Hotch will understand.

Reid takes a deep breath. Wrings his hands, rubs at the crook of his arm where the scars are.

‘What if I mess up?’ he whispers.

Hotch narrows his eyes but doesn’t reply.

‘Studies have shown that a child at the age of four starts to identify with a same-sex caregiver. They start to copy their behavior, trying to imitate them. They seek their approval and rely on them to provide them with food, drink, comfort and love,’ Reid says and he glances at his friend nervously. ‘I’m not… I’m socially awkward and I talk too much and I trip over my own feet and never know when to shut up. I can quote thousands of books on pedagogics and child development theories but don’t know what to do when Henry falls and skins his knee. He asks questions I don’t know the answers to because they’re not in textbooks and theories. What if… what if I mess up? What if he grows to be socially awkward, clumsy and totally inapt at normal behavior? What if he suddenly realizes that I am just a geek who prefers to read twenty books a week instead of going out? What if… what if something _happens_ to him?’

‘Every parent has that fear.’

‘I’m not his-‘

‘You are,’ Hotch insists. ‘When Jack was born, I was terrified. When he was a couple of weeks old, Haley had a night out with some of her friends. I slept on the floor next to Jack’s crib because I was scared something would happen to him during the night. And now Jack is older and he has Haley’s eyes and laugh but my stubbornness and ability to get in trouble when unsupervised. Sometimes it feels like I gave him all the bad things. And Haley had too little time to set him straight.’

Reid smiles slightly, ‘but Jack is a great kid.’

‘Henry is too.’

‘I know. It’s just… I don’t want to let them down.’

‘You won’t. JJ and Will chose you for a reason. Out of all the people they could have picked to take care for their son, they chose you.’

Reid sighs, ‘out of all of them they just had to choose the socially awkward, psychically impaired geek. Great.’

‘No. Out of all of them they chose the one who is reliable, responsible and financially capable of taking care of a child. They chose the one who knows how important family is, who has a secure social network and many friends. Someone who is kind, caring and supportive. They chose the one who would love their son. Unconditionally.’

There are tears in the young man’s eyes. He wraps his arms around his chest, hunching his shoulders. He looks far smaller than he actually is.

‘I know this is scary, Spencer,’ Hotch says softly. ‘To have someone so tiny rely on you for everything. It’s a lifetime commitment and it won’t be easy. But it’s worth it. _Henry_ is worth it.’

‘I know.’

Hotch stands up and moves over to the couch, where he kneels before his youngest profiler. The eyes are still watery, but the lips curl into a hesitant smile.

‘Spencer,’ Aaron says, ‘I sincerely hope Henry will try to imitate you. And if he’s only half successful, he’ll grow to be a highly intelligent, kind and loving person.’ Reid looks away, embarrassed, but the eyes snap up when Hotch places a warm hand on his cheek. The thumb brushes a tear away.

‘He’ll be a good man,’ Hotch says.


	4. Lessons learned

 

* * *

 

 

The house feels empty and cold.

Spencer stands on the threshold and stares at the normalcy of it all. A house lived in. There’s a dirty coffee cup on the kitchen table, right next to the newspaper that’s turning yellow now. It’s flipped open on the sports pages but that doesn’t mean anything. It could have been JJ, reading it right before they left for the theatre. Or it could have been Will, waiting for JJ to come home after their Philly case.

Will’s running shoes are kicked in the corner. One of JJ’s jackets hangs from the kitchen door. The fruit in the basket on the table has gone bad. There’s a pile of letters, magazines, newspapers, bills on the doormat.

They could have gone on an unexpected vacation, Spencer thinks. They could come back to this.

‘Tan I go up’tairs?’

Spencer looks down at Henry, who’s holding his favorite toy. It’s a dinosaur, chewed on and with half his tail missing due to an unfortunate accident while trying to trim his hair. Spencer gave it to him when he’d gone to the national history museum in New York, last winter. The boy drags it with him wherever he goes.

‘Yeah. Garcia’s coming with you to help you pack okay?’

‘Otay,’ Henry says while running to the stairs. He carefully climbs it under Spencer’s watchful eye.

Doors slam behind him, making him flinch. The team walks up the path. Half-way there, Garcia bursts into tears, falling into Rossi’s arms. She sobs and whimpers about how it’s not fair, not right. Spencer doesn’t hear. He doesn’t want to. Nothing in this world is fair, he knows. And nobody gets what they deserve.

Hotch steps up beside him, holding onto Beth’s hand.

Spencer clears his throat, ‘Henry is upstairs. He wanted… He wanted to go to his room. Something about his coloring book.’

‘I’ll go check on him,’ Beth says quietly before slipping into the house and searching for the staircase. She’s never been inside JJ’s house before. She’d never lounged with Will on that couch. Maybe to her, there’s nothing wrong with this place.

‘I told her parents that I would pack their stuff,’ Spencer says without looking at Hotch. ‘They would like to keep her photo-albums at their place. And some other things. Personal items. They don’t want the furniture.’

‘We could give it to charity,’ Hotch offers softly. ‘Or we could put it in storage.’

‘Why? Give Henry his dead parents furniture for his sixteenth birthday?’

Hotch closes his eyes for a moment, ‘no. I thought maybe you would like to have some, for your new apartment.’

‘It’s technically a house, not an apartment,’ Spencer says before stepping over the threshold and entering the former-home. There are pictures on the walls. Pictures of Will leaning against a cop-car. Of JJ hugging Garcia. There’s a picture of Spencer on Morgan’s back right after the baseball game, a candid shot of Hotch on the floor with Henry and Jack. The neighbor, showing off a pie. A niece on her wedding day. JJ’s parents, proudly kissing Will’s cheek as he holds Henry at the hospital, minutes after birth.

Morgan joins him this time. Maybe Hotch has given up.

‘Hey man,’ he says carefully, trying to test the waters. ‘We can do this another time. It doesn’t have to happen right now.’

‘It does.’

Every night, before he leaves the BAU, he walks past JJ’s office. It’s not on his route. He walks past in the hopes of seeing her behind the desk. Of seeing the light on. The stacks of case files. The soft voice talking to Will about coming home soon. The firm voice telling police officers that _yes, she will review their case_ and _no, she can’t promise anything_.

Every night, before going home, he drives past this house. He’ll park on the driveway and walk up the path in the hopes of seeing the lights on. Of seeing Will carrying Henry to bed. Of the artificial light that comes from the television. He hopes to hear Will’s fanatic cheering when his team wins and JJ’s outraged cries when hers loses.

On some nights, he even hopes there’s a note.

 _Dear Spence, I knew you would be the one who came to check on us_.

He wouldn’t even be angry. Or upset. He’d be so happy if they had forsaken him to find their happy ending somewhere else.

He’d be so happy if they’d have a happy ending.

But no-one gets what they deserve.

And he can’t bear it anymore. The empty office, the empty desk, the empty house.

‘It needs to be today,’ Spencer says to Morgan as he takes one of the pictures down.

‘Okay. Whatever you want, just tell me what to do.’

But spencer doesn’t know where to start. He has the picture of Will in his hands. Should he give it to JJ’s parents? Should he hang it on his wall, back home? Should he put it up in Henry’s room? Should he…

‘Whoa,’ Morgan catches him as he stumbles and leads him to the couch. ‘Sit down, that’s it. Breathe Reid. Just breathe.’

Hotch walks into the living room and sits down besides Reid. Their shoulders are touching.

‘JJ still has her butterfly collection from when she was a kid. It’s on the second floor, in her study. She would want to keep that. Maybe you can put it in your study.’

Reid frowns and nods, biting the knuckles of his right hand while listening to Hotch.

‘Yeah,’ Morgan says, ‘there’s this cookie-jar JJ bought on a fair, some time ago. You should take it. Henry loves the thing and it would be nice to have some of his old day-today stuff around in your house..’

Hotch looks at Spencer, ‘we knew them, Spencer. Go home. Let us do this.’

Suddenly Spencer realizes that he’s not the only one who’s walking past JJ’s desk at night, hoping to see her face. He’s not the only one calling their home number just to hear them when the voicemail picks up. He’s not the only one grieving.

And this is their way of coping. It’s Morgan taking bookcases apart and Hotch flipping through records trying to decide which ones he wants. It’s Rossi taking the book about gardening even though he pays people to tend to his yard. It’s Garcia wiping all the hard-drives of every computer in the house, but not before transferring the stored pictures to her laptop.

‘Yeah,’ Spencer rubs at his eyes with both hands, ‘yeah, I’ll just…’

‘Why don’t you go home and try to catch up on some sleep? Let us deal with this today.’

Spencer brushes his hair back and nods, ‘yeah, alright, maybe I’ll just…’ He sighs, ‘do you think I’m a mess?’

‘Yes.’

Spencer laughs bitterly and rubs at his face, ‘what am I supposed to do, Hotch?’

‘Get back on your feet. Sort the paperwork out. Get that house ready to move in. Clean your current one,’ Hotch smiles, ‘shave.’

And suddenly it sounds so much easier. Spencer blinks, rubs at the shimmer of a beard and pulls a face, ‘you’re right.’

‘Of course I am. You might be smart but I’ve got experience.’

And it was a joke. A harmless, stupid joke. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Hotch knows how to rebuild a life. How to put your world back together after it has fallen apart, fitting all the remaining pieces just so until it starts to make sense again.

And it’s time Spencer learned.


	5. Shock therapy

 

* * *

 

 

The apartment smells.

Spencer frowns and steps over towers of magazines which are stacked all around the living room. Some have fallen over, covering the dirty carpet with gossip. The tables are covered with filthy dishes. Some still have food on them. A half-eaten sandwich. Bowls with milk and cereal. Jars filled with molding cookies.

It stinks. Spencer presses his nose in the crook of his arm and quickly walks over to the windows. They creak when he pushes them open. The fresh air instantly makes him feel better.

Slowly, he makes his way to the kitchen. The oven is on, but there’s nothing inside. He shuts it off. There are beakers on the kitchen table. Measuring cups with flower, with sugar, with cinnamon, with chocolate. There are candy-wrappers everywhere. The bin is overflowing with burned cakes and pies.

He leaves the mess as it is and walks over to the bedroom.

The door is open, but the curtains are still closed even though it’s eleven o’clock on a Monday morning. Blue-ish light radiates from the bed.

Garcia is sitting there, in her pajamas, with her laptop on her knees. She’s wearing her purple glasses and hasn’t done her hair. It looks like a birds nest. Her face is drawn and she’s lost weight.

She looks horrible.

‘Garcia,’ Reid says softly as he leans against the door.

She looks up but doesn’t smile, ‘hi. What’re you doing here?’

‘You weren’t at the party yesterday.’

‘There’s nothing to celebrate.’

Spencer folds his arms, ‘I got the house.’

Garcia pretends she didn’t hear. Her gaze wanders back to her screen. Then it suddenly snaps up again. ‘Did you bring Henry?’

Spencer raises his eyebrows, ‘no. I didn’t.’

‘But it’s my weekend!’ Garcia says hoarsely, pushing her laptop onto the bed and sitting up a bit. ‘We made a deal!’

‘It’s Monday today.’

Garcia gapes at him, ‘what? – No, no, that can’t be right, I was supposed to watch Henry this weekend so you could…’

‘Prepare for the party you didn’t go to.’

There’s a short silence. ‘He could stay here this week,’ Garcia offers hopefully.

Spencer pulls a face, ‘he’s not staying in this pig-sty. Bye Penny.’

 

 

‘Bambino!’ Rossi says darkly while waving a spatula at Jack. ‘What are you doing?’

There’s a string of spaghetti hanging out of Jack’s mouth. He’s standing near the stove with Henry, one hand still in the pot with pasta. The brown eyes grow wide, feigning innocence. He slurps the string in. ‘Nothing,’ he says with a small smile.

Henry presses his hands to his mouth and giggles.

Jack aims a kick at him to shut him up.

‘Uh-uh-uh,’ Rossi says, waving with the spatula in the general direction of the foot. ‘No tiramisu if you can’t behave, Hotchner.’

‘Sorry, Rossi!’

‘And no more stealing pasta! And no hanging around the stove! That’s dangerous.’

Spencer sticks his head around the corner, ‘are you boys driving Rossi crazy?’

‘No!’ Henry screams as he runs to his godfather, holding his hands up to be picked up. Spencer lifts him to his hip easily.

‘That monkey of yours is stealing my pasta!’ Rossi accuses with a grin.

Henry laughs in Spencer’s neck.

‘Lemme see,’ Spencer says, poking Henry is the stomach until he opens his mouth. ‘Hmm. Traces of pasta. You’re guilty little man!’ With one easy move, he slings the boy over his shoulder, letting him dangle while holding his small hips. ‘You are arrested for pasta-theft. You have the right to remain silent.’ The doorbell goes and Spencer moves to open the door. ‘Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning.’ He opens the door. Penelope lifts one eyebrow at the sight of her friend, dangling the laughing boy from his shoulder. ‘If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense.’

Penelope smiles, ‘are you arresting my munchkin?’

‘Aunt Penny!’ Henry screams. ‘Save me!’

‘Oh I will, lovely. Come here,’ she holds her hands out.

But Spencer puts the boy down and keeps him close by holding onto his shoulder, ‘go and watch football with Morgan, Henry.’

‘But Spencer!’ Henry whines, trying to get to Penelope.

‘Now.’ The shoulders droop under his hands and the boy slinks off towards the living room.

Garcia stares at Spencer, disbelief in her watery eyes.

Spencer rubs at his cheek, ‘I can’t do this, Garcia.’

‘What,’ she asks bitterly, ‘let me see him? I’m his fairy godmother, Reid! I was chosen to shower him with gifts and kisses and-‘

‘I can’t do this _alone_ ,’ Spencer says.

She falls silent.

‘I need you to shower him with gifts and give him kisses and what not. I can’t… You can’t leave me.’

‘I didn’t…’

‘You did!’ Reid accuses, his voice rising in pitch. ‘You hid in your apartment for _weeks_! I needed you to… I needed you.’

Garcia bites her lip, ‘I’m sorry Reid. It’s just…’ She sighs. ‘It’s not _fair_. I look at him and it’s just… It’s not fair.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ Reid says. ‘It’s _hard_. I don’t know how to do this either! Last week I had a meeting with his teacher, turns out he’s been drawing pictures of Will and JJ, over and over and over. There were twenty seven of them. _Twenty seven_! Two weeks ago he asked me when he was allowed to go home! What am I even supposed to say to that?’

‘Oh Reid.’

‘Sometimes he’s just so upset at nothing, his cup falling over, the crayon breaking, and he just cries until he gets sick and I don’t know what do to. And I called you! I called and you didn’t answer!’

‘I’m so sorry.’

‘There’s a million forms I still need to fill out, I need to meet with his teacher, I’ve been dealing with my new house, his room isn’t even finished yet, we need to get him into some counseling but I don’t know who or where or…’

‘Stop,’ Penelope steps forward and holds onto his shoulders, steadying him. ‘Stop. I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m so sorry, Reid, but I’m here now. Okay? I’m here now.’

Reid sighs and rubs a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s got a headache coming on.

‘I’ll meet with the teacher,’ she says with finality. ‘And I’m great at filling out forms, even if there are a million of them.’

‘I got the paperwork,’ Reid says with a shake of his head.

‘Then let me decorate his room.’ She gives him a small smile, ‘I’m great with color.’

That earns her a small laugh, ‘yeah, you are.’

‘Great! Tomorrow, you’re going to pack up your stuff, head to your library or coffee shop or where ever it is you go to relax and you’re going to fill those forms out, okay? I’ll take Henry shopping for some paint, and I’ll get Morgan to help us out.’ She smiles again. ‘And I know someone for that therapy.’

He drops his head to her shoulder, breathing through his nose, ‘okay.’

She hugs him for a second, ‘I’m really sorry, Reid.’

‘Yeah, well, guess we’re both fucking up. Great team, we are.’

She nods and then brightens, ‘only uphill from here, then! Come on, you need some feeding up and I’ve got a little munchkin waiting for me. In you go.’ She steers him back into the house and kicks the door shut behind her.

 

Later, when he’s carrying a sleeping Henry to his car, Garcia carries his bag for him.

She hesitates, ‘so, I’ll see you guys tomorrow, right? Maybe he can stay at my place next weekend?’

‘Did you clean it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then of course he can come and stay over at yours,’ Reid murmurs as he straps the little boy in. ‘I’ve got a guestroom now, but maybe you can make that yours. You know, when we’re called away on cases, maybe you can sleep at mine? That way he’ll keep his rhythm while having you around. Best of both worlds, under the circumstances.’

She beams, ‘yeah, yeah, of course!’

He smiles back and kisses her cheek, ‘thanks, see you tomorrow, Penny.’

‘See you tomorrow, genius.’

Just when he wants to get into the car, he stops and looks over his shoulder, ‘I mean it; thanks. For helping out and… thanks.’

Garcia nods. ‘I’m still sorry, Reid. And I don’t think you are fucking up. We’ll get through. Together, the three of us. We’ll be all right.’

He grins and falls down into the seat.

‘Oh,’ she says just before he closes the door. ‘And you don’t mind if I paint your guest room purple, do you?’


	6. Morning untill evening untill morning again.

 

* * *

 

 

**Morning**

‘Bread or cereal?’

‘Cereal!’

‘Okidoki,’ Spencer murmurs as he opens the fridge to hunt for the milk. Henry climbs up on his chair, fetching his favorite bowl and nudging Spencer in the leg with it. ‘Thanks bud. What did we do to the milk?’

‘Eated it.’

‘I highly doubt that,’ Spencer answers. ‘You drink milk, for starters, and we had a gallon left yesterday.’

‘Pancakes.’

Slowly, Spencer turns to face his godson, who looks at him with wide eyes.

‘You genius,’ Spencer says softly. He lifts his godson onto the kitchen counter. ‘We used the milk for pancakes yesterday. Good job Sherlock.’ Henry giggles and kicks his legs. ‘Can I bribe you to have a peanut butter sandwich for breakfast instead?’

‘No!’

‘What if I add jelly to the mix?’

‘No!’ The boy laughs and holds out his arms for a hug when he sees Spencer’s faked sad face. They hug and then Spencer squats down in front of his freezer.

‘This has to be our secret, buddy. You can’t tell anyone what I’m about to do.’

‘What?’ Henry asks.

‘There’s just no other way. This is about survival, Henry. Life or death. You don’t want to eat a sandwich, I don’t want to eat breakfast out, we simply have no choice. But you can’t tell your teacher. And don’t tell Hotch! He’ll have my head for it.’

‘What?’ Henry nearly shouts.

Spencer pulls a bucket of vanilla ice cream out and then reaches up to get the cereal. He puts them both on the table.

‘Breakfast is served.’

 

 

**Afternoon** :

The bell rings and the children start to pour out of the building. They hold hands, swinging them merrily while walking towards the fence where their parents are waiting to pick them up. Henry is holding the hand of his teacher, a young woman who smiles kindly at him and listens to the many stories he has to tell. Other kids run past them, shouting that they’ve seen their parents before zipping away into the small crowd.

Henry then spots Spencer, who’s standing at the back of the crowd, leaning against a black SUV.

‘I’ve spotted my Spencer!’ He tells his teacher while tugging at her hand.

The teacher scans the crowd and then laughs, ‘you’re right. Enjoy your weekend, Henry.’

‘Bye!’ He shouts before racing towards Spencer, the little backpack bobbing on his back. Luckily, Spencer has gotten used to this ritual and he squats down to catch the little boy and swinging him up in the air.

‘Hey little bit! How was school?’

‘We learned to count to hundred!’

‘Oh wauw!’ Spencer says while strapping Henry in on the back seat. ‘That’s great buddy!’

 

 

**Evening** :

‘One more?’

‘No. It’s almost eight o’clock, Henry. Time to go to bed.’

‘Just one more!’

‘I said no. We’ll read more tomorrow,’ Spencer says, putting the book back on a shelve. ‘Come on, get comfortable.’

Henry slides down into the bed, pulling his blanket up to his chin before rolling onto his side. He closes his eyes.

‘Good job. Sweet dreams. I love you.’

‘Love you too,’ Henry murmurs. ‘Door open?’

‘Yeah, I’ll leave the door open so you can see the light from my study. I’ll be in there, if you need me, okay?’

‘Tan I tome sleep with you?’

Spencer leans down and kisses the boys hair, ‘if you have bad dreams, you can come and sleep with me. Sure. Good night buddy.’

‘Night, dad.’

 

 

**Night** :

Spencer is sitting in the hallway, clutching one of Henry’s misplaced stuffed animals. His hands are shaking.

His mobile phone is in his hand. He has a new text message.

_Everything okay? – Hotch_

Spencer doesn’t know what to answer.

_Yes. Everything is okay. We had ice cream for breakfast and I picked him up from school. His face lit up when he saw me. We had a snack together and he built a tower in the living room. He called me dad by accident, but that’s okay because he won’t remember doing it tomorrow. Everything is okay. – Spencer._

_Yes. Everything is okay. We had a great day. – Spencer._

_No. I’m not okay. Every night I dream that I wake up from this mess. Every night, they are still alive. I can remember every message JJ ever send to me, but I’m starting to forget what her laugh sounded like. Didn’t Will used to have an accent? He doesn’t talk to me in my nightmares. Please, please, stop this. – Spencer._

_No. Everything feels wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Life. – Spencer._

In the end, he doesn’t answer Hotch at all.

He just sits there in the dark. Waiting for nightmares to wake Henry.

Waiting for his own dreams. Nightmares.

Life.


	7. Emily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed up. Luckily Leahloahla pointed out to me that I'd completely forgotten about a character.  
> And since everything was all messed up already, I figured I might as well screw that time line up.  
> So there.  
> Sorry.

 

* * *

 

 

Spencer doesn’t know how he’s supposed to explain to Henry that some people get to come back from death.

 

Emily wraps her arms around him in a careful hug. She seems hesitant, overwhelmed by being around her family once more, fearful of how they’re going to react to her resurrection.

Reid is all slow limbs and wide eyes, his brain for once left in the dust by emotions and muscle memory. He hugs her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Emily tells him, a hand on his back and another curled around his shoulder, holding him close. ‘I’m so sorry I wasn’t there, Reid. I tried… I tried to come back.’

After a second, she lets go and moves to Morgan, who seems to have lost his capacity for hugs. He just stands there, shocked and grateful, with just a shimmer of anger in those dark eyes. Oh he has issues, all right.

‘I really did try,’ she tells him. ‘Right after I heard about the accident, I… I tried.’

‘Why couldn’t you?’ Reid asks, voice breaking on the words.

Emily just shakes her head.

And Hotch turns his back on them.

 _Guilt_ , Reid profiles without having to look at him. He wouldn’t let her come back.

It makes him feel sick. His hands shake, his vision blurs. ‘Who else knew?’

‘Just Hotch,’ Emily says quickly, ‘Hotch and JJ.’

‘She died.’

‘I know Reid, I’m so sorry…’

‘ _You_ died.’

‘Reid…’

But Reid backs away and then turns on his heels. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Too much, all at once, his head too close to his heart, ready to burst and tear and bleed. He’s so happy because that’s _Emily_. Emily who watches obscure Russian movies with him, who tucks at his tie with a gentle and teasing smile, who knows there’s a lot to hate about him but still loves him.

Morgan is quick to follow him; heavy boots in the hallways, echoing him until they both reach the bathrooms, seconds after each other.

Reid curls his hands around the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. He remembers talking to Morgan here about his nightmares, his headaches, the lack of books he’d been reading. How he’d been losing his mind.

‘Talk to me, kid,’ Morgan urges.

‘She died.’ Reid’s hands hurt from the amount of pressure he’s putting on them.

‘I know.’

‘Why does _she_ get to come back?’ He doesn’t mean to sound like that. Like she doesn’t deserve it, like it should have happened to someone else instead. He’s disgusted with himself, bile rising in his throat because he’s so happy she’s back and he’s so mad she’s back and…

‘She was never gone.’

‘She was,’ Reid tells him. ‘You carried her coffin. We buried her.’

‘It wasn’t her, kid.’ Morgan steps forward to get his attention. ‘I know this is… I don’t even understand what this is, what’s going on. All I know is; she’s back with us, and that’s _good_.’

He nods because that’s the expected response, the desired one. His friend has risen from the dead. That’s great.

‘Hey,’ Morgan says with a small frown. ‘Come on, man. _Talk to me_.’

‘I’ve got to go.’ The genius pushes past his best friend and heads back to the bullpen to grab his coat and bag. He glances up at the conference room. Emily is hugging Garcia.

‘Reid.’ Hotch slowly walks down the small staircase near his office. Dress shoes making that soft tapping sound. The bullpen is empty. It’s late.

Reid stuffs his personal belongings into his messenger bag, ‘hi. I need to go and relieve the sitter. It’s getting late, I don’t want her to drive home past midnight. I always tell her to just sleep in the guestroom, but she prefers to sleep in her own bed.’

‘Reid.’

‘It’s really irrational, but I guess it has something to do with the familiarity. Or maybe she just thinks I’m creepy,’ he fakes a laugh. It sounds almost hysterical. ‘Anyway, I have to go now.’

‘ _Spencer_.’

Reid sighs and meets Hotch’s eye. The older profiler folds his arms in front of his chest, a defensive gesture, but his face hardens in determination, the belief that he had done what was needed. There’s sorrow in the micro expressions, the way his mouth twists downwards for a second, and there’s guilt in the cold look in his eyes.

‘How do I explain this?’ He demands when his boss doesn’t say anything else. ‘Why do some people get to come back while others don’t? Why are some deaths not permanent?’

Hotch tilts his chin higher.

‘Do I just not tell him?’ Reid asks. ‘Do I lie to him like you did to us? Pretend that this never happened, banish her from his life like death was supposed to do. But she’s still there. In the pictures, in the stories, and from now on there will be new pictures, new stories and they’ll all include her. How can I keep that from him?’

Hotch just looks at him.

‘He knows her name!’ Reid shouts. ‘Aunt Emily who had a cat with a difficult name. And now Garcia has the cat, and she won’t anymore as of tomorrow and where did the cat go, Hotch?’

‘Spencer, I’m…’

‘Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry,’ Reid spits out. ‘You’re not!’ He advances on his friend, eyes dark and mouth just a thin line. ‘You used us all. What were you thinking, back in that waiting room? Did you even worry about us being able to tell you were lying, or did you just know that we trusted you blindly?’

‘You were too upset.’

Reid laughs, the sound far too harsh and desperate. ‘Right. Right. That’s… Yeah,’ he shakes his head and walks away. His hands on the cool glass of the doors, ‘Good evening, Hotchner.’

 

The next morning is Saturday which means that Garcia is in his kitchen when he wakes up, the smell of pancakes wafting through the house. Disney songs blare from his stereo, the voices of a woman and little boy mixing as they belt along.

He drags himself out of bed and stumbles down the staircase blearily.

‘Good morning my fair prince,’ Garcia greets as she kissing him soundly on his cheek.

‘Spence!’ Henry bounces around him, ‘can I and Penny go to the park today? Will you come too?’

‘Penny and I,’ Reid mutters as he moves to his coffee maker. ‘But yeah, you may go to the park. I have to stay home, though. I have to work on my philosophy thesis. My homework,’ he tells the boy when he wrinkles his nose at him in confusion. ‘I have to finish my homework for school.’

Henry pouts.

‘If we let him work in peace today, he might have time to come and watch your game tomorrow, pumpkin,’ Garcia mediates.

The young face lights up, ‘Yeah?’ he asks his godfather.

‘Yeah,’ Spencer nods, ‘I’ll be there.’ He slides into his seat at the big table, hunches over his pancakes as one hand curls around his coffee cup. Watchful eyes note how Henry climbs up on his chair, eyes shining as he reaches for the syrup. ‘Sit on your butt,’ Spencer tells him.

Henry plops down, reaches for the syrup again.

Spencer pushes it so it’s within his reach. ‘We need to talk, Henry.’

The boy looks up, eyes wide, ‘I didn’t do it.’

Garcia snorts and Spencer smirks at the miniature Will at their breakfast table. ‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything. You didn’t do anything wrong. We need to talk about Emily. Do you remember her?’

Henry nods, ‘Sergio used to live with Emily.’

‘Yeah, listen, buddy…’

He tells Henry how there’d been a mistake. A mistake, no, a lie, but people had meant well, even though they lied and that’s bad, but this was a white lie, which is still bad but with good intentions which means that it’s only good in some cases. It’s confusing, he knows that, yes, but the white and black and gray lies don’t matter because… well. Sometimes there are big lies and small lies, and sometimes you tell lies to protect the people you care about, you _love_ , because you don’t want them to hurt.

And does he remember that his mommy told him that Emily wouldn’t be coming to baby sit anymore, and that Will had tried to explain why Spencer was sitting on their couch but wouldn’t play or laugh.

He does, sort of, kinda, he knows that Emily is dead, like his mommy and daddy.

 _No, not like them at all_ , Spencer tells him, snaps, tries to explain but fails because he doesn’t understand himself.

In the end, Henry starts to cry because he just doesn’t understand what Spencer is trying to tell him. And Spencer just keeps wringing his hands with that strange mixture of sorrow and anger in his eyes.

Garcia kisses Henry’s forehead, tells him to take a deep breath, that everything is okay and no, Spencer isn’t mad at him for not understanding. She tells him about Emily. About a little boy, a bad man, about Hotch and their mommy who loved them all so much. That they were on a secret mission to keep Emily safe, that that is why they lied a bit and she knows that it had hurt that Emily was gone, but that just reminds us how much we love everyone. Sometimes it hurts, but that’s good.

But now Emily is back and Sergio will go back to live with her, but they can still visit him sometimes.

And now dry those tears and taste those pancakes. Loads of syrup, that’s fine for today, because it’s a sweet day.

Spencer eats his pancakes.

Henry eats his pancakes.

Garcia eats her pancakes.

Suddenly, Henry stills. He looks up, eyes wide and Spencer knows, he just knows that the boy just realized that Emily was dead and now she’s not and Will died too and JJ and now they might not have because it had hurt, but maybe….

‘Can we have ice cream after dinner on sweet days?’ Henry asks.

Garcia looks down at him, ‘you live with Spencer. You always eat ice cream after dinner.’

‘Only on weekends,’ Spencer mutters.

‘Saturday and Sunday,’ Henry tells Garcia as if she might not know. ‘When Spence is not going to work.’

‘Today is Saturday,’ Garcia reminds him.

‘Right.’ Henry nods a little. ‘Good.’

 

And he might not understand, but Spencer isn’t sure any of them do, so that’s okay.

The next morning, he walks over the grassy field of the soccer club towards the canteen. Henry is doing his warming up while Garcia talks to the other mothers lining the field, but it’s early and Spencer is not awake enough to listen to the other dads.

He hates soccer. But doesn’t mind so much when it’s Henry who’s playing.

‘Here.’

Of course Hotch is there, holding out a steaming cup of coffee and four packets of sugar. Jack is leaning against his frame, muddy and sweaty, one hand on his dad’s belt where the gun usually rests. ‘Is Henry playing today?’

‘Yeah,’ Spencer tells the boy. ‘They’re warming up on the outer-fields.’

‘Can we stay and watch?’ Jack asks his dad.

‘Sure. Go ahead.’

The boy darts away, letting the heavy bag with his equipment drop at his father’s feet, a cheeky grin over his shoulder and then he’s at Garcia’s side, hopping from foot to foot as he waits anxiously for the game to begin.

Hotch reaches down, grabs the bag and looks at Spencer.

‘Let’s go,’ the genius mutters as he turns on his heels. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘You’re welcome.’

‘How’s Jessica?’

‘Good, thank you.’

‘Yeah.’

The conversation dies between them. They watch the game. Spencer laughs and shouts at the sweaty boy with the flushed cheeks he calls his own and Hotch cheers his nephew on. Jack yells for his younger brother to _shoot, shoot now_ , and Garcia tells her son to keep his chin up when he stumbles and nearly falls flat on his face.

The game is lost, even though everyone pretends that they don’t keep score. Henry doesn’t mind. He got to kick the ball and he’s very happy.

Reid ushers him over to the locker rooms and Jack ducks in after the boy, telling Spence that he’ll help his brother to get things sorted.

Spencer and Aaron lean against the wall while they wait for their boys. The genius looks at his friend. ‘This doesn’t mean I forgive you.’

The raven-haired man meets his eye, ‘I know. But it’s a start.’


End file.
